I gave a lecture earlier that day on " Diasporic Displacement ". That i remember clearly . Last night I was stoned as fuck. The Mellow Fellow “Gary Payton” did what it was destined to do. It is my bed, a scrapyard of wrappers and debris from the munchies. The munchies devolve me. I am reduced to a fucking raccoon philosopher.
I am naked. My black balls and cock slung over my thigh. Under the covers it’s warm. The air exchanges. My phone is dead. A faint scent of a candle left lit. I am inside the tight womb of my room. My belly rumbles. I may need to take a shit.
Signs that another body has been next to mine appear. Still no recollection, but the faint scent of coffee emerges.
I do the thing. Rub my eyes. Scratch my balls. Stretch. Yawn. Then unleash a crocodile death spin onto my side to grab my phone. Fart
5:37.
I have to go biking.
There’s a push at my door. Pink lace panties press against her, recovering labia. She hands me a cup and my copy of Bukowski.
Thank you.
She crawls over me and settles southeast of the Kit Kat wrappers. Slides under the covers, spine curved. Ass thick. Hair messy, flirting with her neck and shoulders. The urge to kiss her shoulders edges up.
My stomach grumbles.
Shit.
I roll onto my feet. My dick flops. Crocs. Light on. Off.
Bathroom. Piss. Mirror. I look grown. Fucked up. I like what I see.
I sit.
I am a flunky at the post-night-of-fucking rituals. I started this shit late, twenty-eight. I am sitting here shitting some sloshy post-taco stream shit and thinking it through.
It’s clearly her.
My fucking actual therapist.
Every man does this. We review the length and depth of our stroke in exact seconds. A full audit. Did I fuck her the way she should have been fucked? It’s an ugly mix of ego, culture, dominance, power.
What that becomes is the memory of how you tore into her. How she broke down into dependence on your body, touching you everywhere. It’s in how her most intimate flesh wrapped around you.
Her pussy becomes desire for your source. That’s the kick.
Inside her, you become a god.
As men, we weigh this in seconds.
It’s dancing through that and figuring out how to get her to fucking leave without being mean. Should I fuck her again?
It’s Saturday morning. Suddenly I am back between the eggshell white of my childhood living room. It’s everywhere. Everything. My dad brewing mint he picked from Godmother’s tree next door. By then my mom and her would be coming back from prayers.
My brother and I were gladiators for the remote. I was a Cartoon Network guy. He was big on Nickelodeon. It was Cain and Abel land unless Dad intervened and found a neutral channel, usually National Geographic or the History Channel.
I yearn for mornings like that. When my dad would hug my brother and me at the same time. His arms around both our necks.
My brother almost made the trek with me until the bicycle and bike left view. They have not seen each other in over seven years. There is a cemetery in both of their chests.
I flush the toilet. Everything spins. I hop in the shower. The warm water returns my sensibilities. I can think clearly.
The scene is cleared. The linen changed. Debris gone.
She’s dressed. I know her routine. Coffee shop. Iced caramel frappé with whipped cream, double lavender. Review her notes. Meet the girls for lunch. Home. Shower. Sleep. She writes. Calls her parents. Cries. Two glasses. A blunt. A book.
She calls me. Swallows me. Rides me. Kneads me into her. She feels. Repeats.
I am her object.
She sprays my Tom Ford onto her leather jacket.
It’s a Tesla. Her code for letting the car drive so she can suck my dick. I cum on her dashboard. She bursts into laughter. I devolve.
I hop onto my bike.
I ride.
I write in my journal
